


365 Days of Winter

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drabble, Drug Addiction, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATE (5/9/16): i've decided to orphan all of my larry fics because 1) they're old and generally not that good and 2) i haven't cared about the pairing for years. thanks for reading!!</p><p>ORIGINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE: Talking to Harry was like talking to the ghost of a perfect stranger, distant and cold and horrendously impersonal for someone whom he had spent a 365 day winter with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.

Louis was on autopilot.

 

II.

Each morning he would pry his eyes open only to recoil in the morning light, his head throbbing with a hangover that he hadn't earned. He called it waking up, but that was usually far from the case. It was more like switching television channels, turning the volume up all the way, and then leaving the room, still hearing the buzz of the evening news from the next room over, but distantly, as if Louis were a fish trapped in a bowl.

Louis would wake up to an empty bed and wonder, if he pressed his hand to the space next to him, if he could feel some trace of the warmth that once occupied it and consumed Louis with fire; lighting his skin ablaze with passion and fervor. Harry would crawl to him with alcohol on his tongue and Louis would kiss it away, like a child's scraped knee, and Louis would feel his mind begin to fog. Although, it was yet to be determined whether it was the alcohol, or that he was just irrevocably and stupidly drunk off of Harry. Drunk off of Harry's stupid tattoos that Louis traced with the tip of his finger when Harry held him, smiling into the crook of his neck as the digit glided mechanically across his skin.

 

III.

Louis knew Harry inside and out, backwards and forwards, by heart and unforgiving rote. He could draw a map of him if he wanted to, and he feels that maybe he will someday, if it would help him to understand it all.

If Louis were to draw a map of Harry, he would put himself in that space where silver necklaces hit his collar bones and descend downward onto his chest, and Louis would stay there forever, curled up into the crook of the bone, watching the chains bounce as Harry walked.

He would put Harry's heart where his brain was, because Harry told him that that would be the most practical course of action. "D'you even have a brain up there?" Louis asked one night with a toothy grin, slender fingers running through silky curls. "Or is it all hair?" Harry smiled and let his eyes flutter shut as Louis' elegant digits massaged his neck, a hum of approval leaving his lips. "I keep my love up there, Lou," Harry murmured, lips parting again when Louis hit a knot in his neck.

 

IV.

It made no sense. Nothing about Harry made sense. Like how he could be so large in actuality and yet so small in personality. He was truly a shy child stuck in the sinfully beautiful body of a young man and sometimes Louis would forget, like when Harry pins him down by his biceps and Louis could swear that one time he heard the younger boy utter a soft "slut" into his ear. He also forgets when Harry comes home drunk and unreasonably hyped and passes out minutes later on the couch, clutching a little baggie half-filled with white powder that Louis pretends not to see. He always shimmies it out from between Harry's fingers before the night is over and flushes it down the toilet, sometimes sneaking a line for himself, because when it gets really bad, Louis would give anything to not be on autopilot anymore.

 

V.

Louis always called Harry his sunflower. "My little sunflower's grown so big and tall," He chuckled, rising onto his tip toes to peck the tip of Harry's nose, the younger sending a wave of giggles through the air. Sometimes they had days like this, where Louis would hold Harry close and not have to worry about his sea foam eyes floating away, because they were anchored to Louis, gazing upon him with so much love that Louis wonders why Harry needs anything more. Louis doesn't. He has his sunflower.

 

VI.

He hadn't seen Harry for a few days, but that was slowly becoming commonplace. Harry always had things to do, a friend who he hadn't seen for ages who he simply had to go have dinner with, or some spontaneous trip to go see his mum. All lies; Louis knew. He never said anything though. He just sat alone on the couch in a big empty mansion and stared straight ahead, wondering about his sunflower and whether he would make it through the winter.

 

VII.

Louis had to survive the winter, too, which he attempted by scorching his throat with alcohol to keep warm. He swore he would never be one of those people who came home and pounded beers and threw back shots with desperation, and yet there he was. The shot glass shook between his trembling fingers on the 315th day of winter, a drop of liquid gold escaping the rim of the glass and scalding the white countertop. His other hand gripped the edge of the counter, his legs going numb from standing and drinking for so long, supporting his trembling body, flushed cheeks, sweat-soaked skin, and all.

Louis brought the glass unsteadily to his lips. " _Just one more,_ " he thought (prayed) before tossing his head back and sending the whiskey sliding down his throat, blazing a trail of fire in its wake, blooming boldly like a tall tall sunflower in his stomach.

"I wish you wouldn't," He hears someone utter behind him, the voice distant and broken and terrified. Or maybe he was just wasted. Louis barked a laugh, slumping against the counter, his head hung heavy and low. He felt a hand on his back, a large, cold hand that burned the bare skin between his shoulder blades in a new kind of way as it softly explored the skin, tentatively as if it were trying to figure out if it remembered anything about the way the muscles rippled underneath the pale flesh.

"I love you," The same voice whispers, and Louis feels his calves tremble along with his arms and he feels like he's going to fall apart, which he eventually does, sprawled out on the kitchen tile, and Harry wonders if he's laughing or sobbing.

 

VII.

" _Mayday, mayday!_ " The co-pilot in his head is screaming. " _You can't go on like this, solider._ "

" _What the fuck am I still doing here?_ " Louis asks, his internal monologue attempting to stand at attention without falling over.

" _I have no goddamn clue, solider. This is one flight you'll have to make on your own."_

VIII.

Louis arrived home from a visit to Liam's house to find Harry kneeling in front of the coffee table, his back to the front door. He could hear the sharp intake of air followed by a shuddering sigh and a sniffle and Louis had never slammed a door so hard in his life.

_"Do you think it's worth it?" Louis had asked Liam earlier that morning over tea, his mug clutched tightly in his hands._

_"Do **you**?" Liam replied, and Louis knew the answer. _

_He couldn't handle having such a precious sunflower if he was just going to watch it wilt._

Louis collapsed on the brick of their front porch and sobbed until his voice was gone and his sobs were nothing more than spasms of his diaphragm, his body shuddering with every twitch as the tears dried in channels on his cheeks.

When he gathered the strength to pull himself up on wobbly legs and wander back inside, Harry was asleep on the couch. White residue stained the polished black wood of the coffee table and Louis couldn't bring himself to look closely at the sleeping form on the couch, afraid that if he assessed the damages he would only end up bingeing again.

Louis only had two painful, burning shots of straight vodka that night and, to Louis, it was progress.

 

IX.

Louis woke up one morning to find a single red rose placed atop the counter. In the daze of his hangover, he grabbed the stem without checking for thorns, and hissed as one punctures his thumb, sending a drop of crimson falling to the countertop. It landed and fanned into a tiny red circle and Louis left it there, tossing the flower down next to it. He sucked the wound until the bleeding stopped.

Harry left a note but Louis hadn't found it until later that day.

 

_Gone to LA. Won't be back for a while. Love you. x_

_Harry_

It was written as an afterthought, Louis could tell. That's all he was anymore. An afterthought.

Louis picked the thorns off of the rose and pressed them, one by one, into the skin of his arm, watching the blood seep from the wounds and over the grey ink in his flesh with sick fascination. It was easy, bleeding. You didn't really have to do much besides nick the skin a bit. Anyone could do it. Anyone could feel something if they really wanted to.

 

X.

Louis calls Harry a few days after he finds the note and tries to make conversation with him. He tries to talk about something that isn't cocaine or their shell of a home, but he can't. Talking to Harry was like talking to the ghost of a perfect stranger, distant and cold and horrendously impersonal for someone whom he had spent a 365 day winter with.

"Happy anniversary," Louis muttered into the receiver, met with a stretch of silence, followed by the sound of sniffling. He likes to think that Harry was crying. He likes to think that Harry cares.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied there are actually going to be three parts to this tragic tale

I.

The next time Louis sees Harry is at a press conference a few weeks after he disappears, the topic of conversation being One Direction's new album. The youngest lad stumbled in a few minutes late in a large jumper that dangled from his bones like dead skin, eyes red and sunken into his face. His skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, green veins clearly visible when he had pushed his sleeves up. Louis' eyes immediately fixed on a small red abrasion, a mere pinprick on his long limb, and Louis prayed that Harry hadn't been injecting.

 

He already was a corpse in Louis' eyes; now he just looked the part.

 

II.

The car ride to their shared home was silent and cold. Louis' hands firmly gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the horizon, and Harry's feet were planted on the passenger dashboard, his knees pulled to his chest. 

 

Harry began to speak, but he trailed off midsentence, as if his lips lost the initiative to form themselves around the sounds his throat was emitting. Louis hadn't even noticed, honestly. He was too far consumed by his own feelings of anger and depression that Harry could have explained himself in perfect clarity and Louis still wouldn't have heard. 

 

Once inside the house, Harry made a beeline for the bedroom, but Louis stopped him with a shaking, tentative hand pressed to his shoulder. 

 

"Three weeks, Harry," Louis said, cerulean eyes brimming with tears. 

 

Harry wished that Louis wouldn't cry for him. He wished that Louis would just let him die and disintegrate into nothing. 

 

Louis was smaller than Harry, yes, but never had he ever looked so fragile to the other boy. He was like a fallen flower petal, soft and beautiful and slowly dying; a discarded, forgotten token of rejection; a "he loves me not". He was so beautiful. So frail and delicate that if Harry blew in his direction he would simply fly away; take flight, never to be seen again. 

 

Harry shook his head. He had no explanation. There were no words that could repair them.

 

"Please don't leave me, Lou," He whispered, defeated in tone and stature.

 

Louis stays because he still harbors some naive shred of hope that they will be okay again.

 

III.

And things are relatively okay for a while. Harry spends most of his time with Louis, in bed, either asleep or staring at the ceiling. His arms are wrapped around Louis as much as possible. That is, until Harry needs a fix. 

 

He can't bring himself to get high around Louis, and Louis is thankful for that.

 

IV.

Louis walked into their bedroom one evening to find Harry sitting cross-legged on the bed, a black box with spilled contents laying on the comforter. Harry's stare was intense, his eyes fixed on the pile of rubbish. Louis stepped closer to take a better look.

 

Needles. About five of them. A silver spoon turned over, black streaks burnt into the metal. A white cigarette lighter. A yellow chord with a spot of dried blood on it. On Harry's knee sat a bag of powder, a different white than usual, a dirty white. It didn't take an immense amount of detective work to surmise that Harry was indeed injecting, and that he had moved on to fucking heroin, for christ's sake, and things were most definitely not okay.

 

Louis sat down next to him on the bed, defeated. 

 

Harry began to tremble, eyes never leaving the kit before him. From this angle, Louis couldn't see his eyes, but he knew they were welling up with tears.

 

"Are you gonna leave, Lou?" Harry asked, breath hitching upon finishing his sentence.

 

"I'll be here." Louis replied.

 

V.

That night, Louis watched Harry shoot up for the first time. 

 

It was absolutely fucked up how beautiful Louis found it.

 

VI.

"My hands're shaking too bad, Louis." Harry muttered.

 

The tourniquet was wrapped tightly around Harry's pale flesh and the needle was lined up with a blueberry colored vein, but the hand that held it trembled like mad. Harry was close to tears from both frustration and desperation. He needed a fix more than was even conceivable. Every cell in his body seemed to yearn for it, to scream and pulsate and tremble with want. "Help," Harry whimpered, his eyes wild and red as they fixed on Louis.

 

Louis immediately refused from his perch on a kitchen bar stool, some sub-par dinner arrangement melded to the plate in front of him like plastic.

 

"Please," Harry pleaded.

 

Before he could reason with himself, Louis was on the floor next to Harry in the living room, his trembling forearm resting in his lap, and a needle loaded with amber colored fluid pressing into a vein. 

 

Not thirty seconds had passed before Harry was slumped back against the couch, a look of absolute bliss on his face. 

 

Louis slowly extracted the needle, watching as a bead of crimson blood bubbled to the surface of the wound. He wiped it away with the corner of his shirt and pressed a soft kiss to the track mark, his cheek graced with a sudden wetness that caught Louis by surprise. He was crying without even realizing it. But that had been happening quite a bit lately. Louis rarely felt sadness anymore. He rarely felt much of anything. He just cried.

 

He continued to cry until Harry awoke from his coma, still incredibly fucked. His eyes were glazed over and his plump lips were stretched into a small, permanent smile as he looked at Louis, trying to pull him into his arms, but merely nudging him with his outstretched fingers.

 

VII.

Louis doesn't think he can do it anymore.

 

It had gotten to the point where Louis couldn't remember a time when Harry was sober, and that absolutely terrified him. 

 

He thought about the first day he met Harry, a run-in in a bathroom that was completely by chance. Louis was first taken by his curls, so childlike and full. Then Louis noticed the dimples that dented his cheeks and he was almost certain that he was in love.

 

They were so young and so normal, so immensely far from fucked up that Louis didn't think that those were the same lovers that today lay tangled in sweaty bedsheets, bare legs brushing together occasionally in their slumber.

 

They attempted to have sex, but Harry had passed out halfway through. Louis didn't know what he expected.

 

"Happy anniversary," Louis muttered to the sleeping corpse next to him, wondering how two years of complete and utter hell had passed them by so quickly. 

 

VIII.

A week after their anniversary, Louis had a revelation that was nothing short of religious.

 

He was done.

 

He was done with having an absent boyfriend.

 

He was done with having drugs in his home.

 

He was done with having to pretend like he still cared for Harry when, in reality, he was so fucking angry at him that it didn't even matter anymore. 

 

Harry was unpacking his kit to shoot up for the sixth time that day when Louis snatched it up from him and walked out of the room. Harry sat there, dumbfounded, for a few long moments before getting up and rushing out after Louis. 

 

Louis stood before a storm drain in front of their home with the little black box open, his hand clenched around bloodied needles and spent bags of smack. 

 

Harry ran to Louis, trying desperately to grab the kit back from him.

 

"Stop, Louis!" Harry yelled, his voice raspy and weak with tears as Louis tossed the handful down into the sewer. He shook Harry off of him and Harry went tumbling to the ground with a pathetic whimper as he laid there, sobbing, in complete hysterics, babbling nonsense about Louis killing him and how he _needed_ smack. He _needed_ it.

 

Louis had sent it all down into the sewer, the box going last and he stared at Harry, writhing on the ground, curled into the fetal position. He kneeled in front of Harry and pulled him upright, making Harry face him.

 

"I'm leaving, Haz." Louis said, his voice much weaker than he intended.

 

Harry world had come crashing down around him, which brought a new wave of tears and hitched, shaky breaths.

 

Harry shook his head, stuttering through a string of "nonononononono"s.

 

"You promised me you wouldn't leave. You promised." 

 

Louis said nothing more, only standing and staring down at the younger boy who looked so pathetic that it broke Louis' heart. He had to be strong, though. He couldn't cry. He couldn't stay.

 

"Goodbye, Harry."


End file.
